French Revolution

It's time to start again. The travel fever is causing restless nights. The 38-year-old caravan has a new inspection certificate and has also passed the gas inspection.

Zappa has installed a lounge area, so now we can eat, read, and relax at a table without annoying remodeling noise. We will now sleep sideways and very close together, which was not at all the case in the previous king-size bed. All this requires a feasibility study and must be tested for suitability.

So, combining the long overdue remaining vacation with a few overtime hours and the Easter holidays results in a travel time of just over two weeks. That's enough for a trip to the French Provence, where we can expect sunshine and spring temperatures.

But, oh horror! Two days before departure, we receive dreadful news. It's not that the news about our rebellious neighbors has passed us by. We have heard that they are resisting injustice and arbitrariness, namely the increase in the retirement age from 62 to 64 years. They are erecting barricades, setting cars on fire, and paralyzing the country. But we have not calculated that the discontent goes so far that gas stations are no longer supplied with fuel and have to close partially.

In my mind's eye, I can already see us traveling along the borders of France for two weeks, always within reach of the precious liquid abroad, and in the end, waiting for months in a growing line of cars in Pierrelatte for the long-awaited fuel. But at least accompanied by accordion music, wine, baguette, and cheese, where I will perfect my language skills. And there is plenty of power from the nearby nuclear power plant here too...

So now what?

I believe I have already mentioned that I have a forever solution-finder by my side. And of course Zappa knows a solution. He digs out five large, thick-walled, chemically resistant canisters from the depths of his immeasurable supplies, which once contained the strongest industrial cleaning agent. These find a secure place tightly lashed in a special chemical container in the vehicle and go on the tour.

My fuel app promises a diesel source near Mannheim with an unbeatable price. When we arrive there, the price is just increasing by five cents per liter. The gas station is tight and crowded, everyone wants this fuel. So, we take a coffee break first in the XXXl parking lot of the nearby furniture store, observe the situation, and discuss. Just as the price drops back to €1.50, we disconnect the caravan, maneuver through the line with the Kangoo only, fill up, and fill the canisters to the brim with the precious liquid.
It's amazing how the price has changed five times during our two-hour presence.

Yes, I see raised eyebrows, furrowed brows, and raised index fingers. But now, this is an emergency measure. After all, we have to be back home on time and can't amuse ourselves for weeks at French gas stations.
As soon as the situation relaxes, we will pour the stuff into the tank, at the latest on the return journey.
Maybe the sum from the black market is enough for a mansion with a pool in Provence, and we stay there?
On va voir...